Interrogation
by Hey Lady Hey
Summary: Tad picked at his bloody Aquaberry vest absently. “Kid? Tell us what happened.” [One shot, character death]


Interrogation  
T: Blood, fighting, character death  
Summary: Tad picked at his bloody Aquaberry vest absently. "Kid? Tell us what happened." [One shot, character death  
Author's Note: Takes place a year or two after the first game. No pairings, obviously, just violence.

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"Alright, kid. Tell us what happened."

Tad picked at his Aquaberry vest, snapping the loose string with a sharp yank. He sighed, scratching at the dark red that had crusted over the beautiful blues. Red was such an ugly color. It was loud and brash, but not in a good way- say, like bright sky blue or vibrant grass green. No. It was more of a violent, aggressive color, speaking of pain and death.

"Kid?"

The dark blood flaked under his manicured fingernails, and Tad frowned. He'd have to buy a new vest, which was a shame, since this was his favorite…

"Kid! Stop it, and speak up!" The police officer growled, slamming his fist down onto the table. Tad winced, flinching back in his seat and looking up at the officer. Of course, he hadn't bothered to learn his name before he had dragged him off into this disgusting dump. Though, he knew his name.

"Excuse me, MacTavish. I just finally noticed the state of my dress," His faux-British accent flowed naturally, and he had a small pout on his face. He seemed exceptionally calm for someone who had blood all over their shirt. "And it's quite depressing. I pride myself in my appearance, and this…"

MacTavish sighed, taking the cap off of his head. This was not going to be an easy interrogation. Like almost all kids in this dump of a town, he was messed up, but maybe more so because of the conditions he lived in. And, on the downside, he was a Preppy. If there was a group who was the most skilled at concealing emotions, it was they.

MacTavish placed one hand over the other, sitting straight back in the chair. He would simply have to pry information out of him, a few words at a time.

"Would you mind telling me what happened tonight, kid?" He asked.

Tad looked away. "Why are you interrogating me? I am… only sixteen. Not much younger then you." He looked back at MacTavish, tilting his head up. "I'm not capable of what happened tonight."

MacTavish's expression did not change. He was stoic, a much less angry version of the prefect that stalked the halls of Bullworth. Justice, not steroids, was now his backbone.

He reached down on the floor, placing something in his lap that Tad could not see. "Kid, what you say tonight will help us decide who to press charges to- you, an outside source we haven't considered…" He paused. "Or, your mother."

It was a low blow, but he wanted this done with. The sooner, the better. A murder this big would be a sensation in the small town of Bullworth, and they would need to bring justice swiftly to assure the Police Station had full control over the protection of this town.

Tad flinched again, closing his eyes tightly, before opening them slowly. "… I suppose, then, that I have no choice?"

MacTavish said nothing, just merely putting what was in his lap on the table; a small voice recorder. He pressed the button, looking over at Tad Spencer.

"State your name, age, and occupation."

Tad stared at the voice recorder, stiffening visibly. "My name… is Tad Spencer. I am sixteen years old, and a student at Bullworth Academy."

MacTavish leaned forward. "Now, on the night of March Twentieth, two-thousand and eight, at the Spencer Manor, what did you see?"

Tad closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled.

"_Mummy!_" He nearly shrieked, clutching his chest like he had been shot in the heart. "What… what…?"

She looked up, smiling weakly. "Oh, Tad! You should have told me that you were coming home! I would have had Felicia cook up a nice dinner…" She trailed off. Tad was only looking at the bruise around her eye. Around a week old, it had mellowed from black and blue to a disgusting mélange of yellows and greens.

"Daddy hit you again," He asked softly, reaching out and touching her face gently. "Didn't he?"

She touched Tad's hand, sighing. "Tad, dear, please, just calm down…"

Tad pulled away, turning his back on her and making fists. "I'll fight him!" He said harshly, looking over his shoulder at his mother. "You don't deserve this, Mum!"

"Honey, you're speaking nonsense. Just forget about this and-"

The large, double doors of the front entrance of Spencer manor slammed open, with the head man himself walking through. His drunken swagger was akin to a man who had reached land after months at sea- exaggeratingly wobbly. He threatened to fall over at the fall of a dime.

"Patricia!" Tad's Father barked, still holding a bottle in his hand. "You never told me that Tad was going to be home…" He glanced over at Tad. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see Mummy." He answered stiffly.

His father approached him, and Tad couldn't help but wince. Mr. Spencer let out a booming laugh, leaning down so that he was face to face with his son. He smelled of scotch and cigars. "What are you flinching for, you pansy? I'm your father!" The push to his shoulder was hard. "Be a man!"

"A real man doesn't beat his own wife!" Tad suddenly yelled. His father wrinkled his nose, and a small gasp escaped his mother's mouth.

He hadn't really expected the punch. It came way too fast for it to be coming from a drunk man, and Tad fell with a grunt, all of the wind knocked out of him. His father had been the lead boxer when he was in Bullworth Academy, like Bif. It still showed in the way he fought.

"How _dare_ you?" His words were slurred, and he hauled his son up by his expensive Aquaberry clothes. Tad was slammed against the wall, and he cried out in pain, starting to struggle. "I am the man of this house, and you will respect me, boy!" He roared, gripping his boy by the throat.

Tad's mother sobbed, running past her husband towards the phone. She accidentally pushed her husband in her frantic haste, and he swayed, dropping Tad on the ground and falling over.

The bottle crashed against the floor, and Tad watched numbly as his father fell onto the corner of the coffee table. Blood splattered.

Tad sighed, closing his eyes. He opened them slowly, looking over at MacTavish. "And that is what happened. You couldn't even pin accidental murder on my Mum. She ran past him, and in his drunken stupor, he fell over and… busted his head."

Everything was matching up to what his mother had said earlier. MacTavish frowned. "And you called 911 immediately after, correct?"

Tad glared at him. "Yes, and I understand what you are implying- that if we had let him bleed out on the ground, that could constitute as some sort of murder, correct?" He seemed tense, and under the table he was gripping the fabric of his pants tightly. "But, we immediately called an ambulance."

MacTavish's face suddenly became emotionless. He tapped his finger against the recorder. "So, you're indeed certain that your father fell, fracturing his skull on the coffee table?"

"Yes." Tad answered simply.

"Then why is there blood on your clothes?" He asked simply. Tad paled.

"I…" He chewed his lip, picking at the blood caked onto his vest. "He was so messy. Bleeding out onto the Persian rugs... I think he hit an artery- a vein- when he fell… and, when he dropped me, I was so weak… I crawled over to him, and checked for a pulse. I never noticed that I was nearly laying in his blood as I checked his wrist…"

MacTavish sighed. "Is that right, now? Because, now that you mentioned it," He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He quietly unfolded it, and Tad eyed it like it was a bomb. "I can tell you that your father did indeed die from blood loss." 'AUTOPSY REPORT' was written in big letters across the top. He slid it across the desk to Ted, and the prep quietly picked the paper up, looking it over.

"He died of blood loss," MacTavish continued, "Caused by a blunt force on the head, which did indeed puncture on of his main arteries. He was so intoxicated that it is likely that once he…fell, he did not get back up." Tad held the paper tight in his hand, looking up at MacTavish.

"So? Here is your proof. Neither my mother nor me are guilty of anything. My father had the ill fortune to fall." He put the paper down, sliding it back to Max. The other smiled slightly, stopping it with his hands, and pushing it back towards Tad.

"I'm not finished, kid. Please read the bottom."

Tad, at a loss for words, simply gripped the paper.

"As I was saying, those are only _some_ of Mr. Spencer's injuries." At that comment, MacTavish noticed only the slightest flaring of Tad's nostrils- like he was taking a small, silent gasp in surprise. His years at Bullworth had paid off; he noticed these little things, and knew they meant much to people like him.

"There was severe bruising on the back of his head." MacTavish reached around, grabbing the back of his head to illustrate. "The bruises are similar to that of a hand. As if someone had grabbed his head, and perhaps forced it against a table-"

"I didn't do it!" Tad swallowed thickly, his eyes widening. "You… It could have been any of those disgusting, lowlife hookers he visits whenever he gets drunk! That must have been it…" He looked disgusted, gripping the table and looking away from MacTavish's calm expression. "It's the only explanation…"

"Really?" He leaned forward, folding his hands together. "That is a very likely explanation…" Tad's face seemed to soften, and he nodded along as Max talked. "A man and a woman being a little too rough in the throes of passion… very likely, actually…" He leaned a head upon his hand, tapping the table as if in thought.

"I told you." Tad said, regaining the signature calm Preppies had. "My father was not a very… kind man, to my mother. He did cheat on her, and consumed large quantities of alcohol. Since the business nearly runs itself… he can indulge in these things without a care to others."

"Ah. I see." Max seemed bored. He was getting tired of this interrogation. Lunch was approaching soon, and he didn't want to miss it. "But, you forgot something."

Tad gave MacTavish a blank look. "Ex…cuse me?"

"Mr. Spencer was not seen at a single bar that night in the area."

Tad's eyes widened, and he gripped the table hard. "Th-that… cannot…"

Max leaned forward, looking the Prep in his eye. "Actually, we have a few witnesses that say they never saw your father leave the estate at all that day."

Tad's face was pure shock, which turned into pure hate. He let out a growl, picking at the blood caked on his vest. "Th-that… liars! They're lying! He was… My mummy even told you, that he…"

"All of the helping hands at your house have all testified they never saw him leave the house. He was there all day- drinking from his own cellars, none the less, but still there the entire day." He smiled slightly as Tad seemed to break out in a light sweat. "Would

you like to clear that up for me?"

Tad grit his teeth, picking furiously at his vest as he thought. He looked down- and notice he had torn a thread loose. He let out an exasperated sigh, jerking it off, before looking up at MacTavish. His face had suddenly become serious.

"Me and my mother currently own one-hundred percent of Spencer Industries, MacTavish." Any ounce of faux-British accent was gone. It was replaced with cold, hard Business Man. "I would like it if you would turn the recorder off at the moment."

MacTavish smiled slightly, hitting the pause button.

Tad frowned. "Good," He looked back down at his shirt. "Would you like the offer or explanation first?"

"The explanation." MacTavish said. "I'm a bit morbidly curious in the 'how', kid. I never knew you had it in you."

Tad looked away, sighing softly. "Neither did I…"

His mother hugged her son, trying to soothe his nerves. "Honey, dear, it was an accident. His hand slipped…"

"Hand slipped my arse!" Tad pulled away from his mother, looking at her bruised eye. Fire and fury brewed in his eyes. "He's not getting away with it this time, mother. Not this time!"

"Tad-!" His mother followed, begging him for no more conflict as he strode down to the cellars. It was no use. His sight was set on the future and he only heard the future- maybe someplace of there own, someplace away from a drunken slur and hard hand.

"Father!" Tad pushed the door open, much to the surprise of his drunken father. The man was seated on a lounge chair, a glass of wine in his hands. "This is going to stop, right now!"

His father paused, before his eyes narrowed. He set his wine glass on the table at the side. "I don't like your tone of voice, boy."

"Tad, please, come upstairs!"

His father was amazingly fast for a drunk. A boxer through and through, he was up to his feet and nearly made it to his distraught wife, had his son not jumped in front of her with his arms outstretched. Tad gazed at his father with contempt.

"You will not touch her."

The punch to his gut was hard. It knocked the breath out of him, and Tad crumpled with a groan. His father grabbed his vest, hauling him up to his feet, and slamming him against the hard stone wall of the cellar. "How _dare_ you, you insolent speck! Speaking to your father that way!" He roared. His breath smelled like wine and cigarettes.

His mother sobbed in the corner, and Tad felt his vision fade as his father gripped his neck suddenly. "I ought to abandon you, boy!"

The thing about most bullies is that they don't expect retaliation. Most victims take their torture; Tad used to, and now he simply was fed up with it. He struck up, his leg hitting his father's groin. The man crumpled, dropping his son to the ground.

Tad managed to get up first. His father was drunk, after all, and really in no state to fight. He gripped his fathers collar, much to the distress of his mother, and dragged the man towards the wall, next to the wine cabinet.

"He's…. he's just unconscious, mummy." Tad said tiredly, looking behind his shoulder at his mother. Don't worry. He'll be alri-"

His legs were suddenly swept out from under him, and his father grappled for his wrists. His fingers were thick and he had a death grip on his son. "You… sniveling, ungrateful little wretch!"

Tad yelled, trying to jerk away. His father grabbed for his other wrist, but the he was too fast. Thinking fast, he grabbed his father's head, pushing it back, _hard_ against the wine cabinet. There was a light groan, and his father's eyes fluttered closed.

"I'm not falling for that, Father!" Tad yelled shrilly, grabbing the back of his head. His mother screamed- it was _enough_, he was knocked out, _stop_- but Tad dug his fingers into his father's head and banged it hard against the wine cabinet. His hands were shaking hard from the adrenaline and fear, and his head hit the corner.

Blood suddenly squirt over Tad, and he screamed, dropping his father's head. It was gushing blood.

"I think I surprised myself the most…" Tad said absently, still fingering his bloody vest. "My mind suddenly snapped, and here I was, ordering my Mother to grab a bucket. We let him bleed out into it. Then, we carried him upstairs, to the first floor, giving his noggin a good thrust against the end of the coffee table so size of the crack would match. We also smeared some blood on the ground, so it looked like he had bled out there…"

MacTavish listened intently, and at the apprehensive pause, he sighed and motioned at the Prep. "Yes? Go on…"

"A maid saw us before I could get this shirt off." He picked at the vest. "We told her that we had gotten an ambulance- which, we had, by then. She wouldn't let anybody leave the room, and neither my mother nor me wanted to arise suspicion. So, I kept it on…" He sighed forlornly.

MacTavish blinked. "And that's it?"

"That's it. Now, is it time for the offer?"

"Yes. Go on, Tad…"

He folded his hands on the table. "I understand you're devoted entirely to justice and the police department, correct, MacTavish? Well, as the new Head of Spencer Industries, I would be happy to donate ten percent of our profit each year to the Police Department of Bullworth. It would be my _honor_." He stressed the word with a slight bow of his head.

MacTavish's face did not change. He reached back to the recording machine flicking it on. "Now, explain, kid."

Tad's faux-British accent flowed so easily. "Oh, Felicia and her rumors… it's horribly endearing how she tries to keep up the family image by saying he hasn't gone out," He couldn't help himself; he was grinning in a silly, childish way. "But it's simply not true. She does this all the time… It's so sad…"

MacTavish smiled. "Ah, I see!…" He stayed silent for a few seconds, holding up a silencing finger at Tad. "I think… that's it for my questioning. Thank you for your cooperation, kid." He flicked the recording box off, looking over at Tad.

He leaned back in his chair. "Thank you."

"No, thank you, Mr. Spencer." MacTavish said with a small smile. He pushed his chair back, standing. Tad did the same, and they shook hands. "We're done here. You're allowed to go back home."

"And my mother?" Tad asked carefully.

"You'll be sent home together." MacTavish affirmed, crossing his arms. Tad gave him a small nod of the head, as close to a bow as the preppie's haughty personality would allow.

"Thank you, Max. I really do mean it." His eyes softened for a split second, and he looked away. When their eyes met again, Tad was back to his calm self, adjusting his collar absently.

MacTavish gestured toward the door , turning off the personal tape recorder in his back pocket discreetly with the other hand. Tad smiled at MacTavish, oblivious, as he was lead out.

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Tad-! I love you, Tad, you poor abused boy you. ;D This was just a warm-up writing piece I did one day before writing the next chapter in my Derby/Bif story, The Price of Face, and I liked it so much I rewrote it to be presentable for FF. Anyway, please review, and thanks for reading.


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